


Up Up and Away

by springbumpkin



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Human science project, Idk I've read some weird shit recently, Mutants, Post-Apocalypse, The Greene Farm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 20:38:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12092976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbumpkin/pseuds/springbumpkin
Summary: She gets caught down by the pond. But it's not like they think.





	Up Up and Away

"You were a bloody mess when we found you. I can't take no for an answer."

 

She keeps her head down as her body involuntarily shudders, and as the old man reaches for her again, she  _snarls_ and throws herself back. There are other people in the room, yes, but she didn't care about them until now, as they hold her down. She flails, and she is strong, stronger than these grown men who are keeping her pinned, but she's outnumbered. So she lays still, keeps her breathing shallow, and stares blankly at the ceiling, like she has a thousand times before. 

 

The old man and someone else leave the room, and they argue for a moment. 

 

"We can't just force her to show us. I don't think I can do that, Rick..."

 

"I don't like it either, Hershel, but I don't want her to just... change under our watch. I don't want everyone to think that I let her suffer like that."

 

"Then what would you have me do?"

 

There's a long pause and she grunts and shifts, trying to make herself more comfortable while she has the bed to lay on. But even the slightest movement sets these men off, and they grip her tighter, move her rougher. They bruises she will receive may only last a couple of hours, in her case, but they're still going to hurt a fuck ton. 

 

She's not really up for any pain right now. 

 

"I'm not bit," she rasps. "I'm not. Swear I'm not." She shakes her head. "It's my blood, but I'm not bit."

 

The old man - presumably Hershel - limps his way back into the room. Rick follows him, his hand resting on his gun as a safety precaution. 

 

"Are you willing to show me?"

 

They let her sit up, the bald one and the redneck, and she nods. Shakes her hands and feet out of their grip with ease and pulls her shirt over her head. She's shaking, shaking out of fear, maybe. Shaking because it's the most obsurd reason as to why she was bleeding, and there's still two angry red lines running down her back. Still multiple lines all over her body, jagged and deep and thin and wide, long and short, old. New. These two, on her back, are as old as she can remember. They just open up once in a while. 

 

So Hershel takes a look at her back, pokes and prods around the extra muscle that seems very out of place. As she breathes, his fingers press against her lower ribs that seem to be protruding a little too much when she inhales. He presses a stethoscope against her back, against her ribs, and lower. He makes a sound, a sound she recognizes well, a sound of disbelief.

 

Hershel stands up straight and ushers the other men out of the room. And she is left alone, shirtless, with a strange sense of deja Vu.

 

* * *

 

 

"Something is wrong with her."

 

"Like what?" Rick asks, not really understanding, because there's a lot wrong with people nowadays.

 

"I'm not sure. She needs an X-ray. There's... Just something in there that isn't right and I have an idea of what it is but... I can't say," Hershel says quietly. He looks pale, worried. Definitely freaked out. "But, what I do know is that she's been living with this... _abnormality_  for a long time."

 

"So she's not scratched? Definitely not bit?"

 

"No, she is not. But that doesn't mean she's safe to be around."

 

"She's pretty damn strong," Shane pipes up, leaning against the entry way. "Pulled herself outta my hands like she was caked in butter."

 

It's quiet for a moment, and everyone can practically hear each other's thoughts.  _Do we kill her? Do we let her go? Do we ask her to stay? Is she useful to us? Is she dangerous?_

 

* * *

 

 "I'm gonna ask you a few questions, okay?"

 

She stares the man down with narrowed eyes. He's kneeling on the floor in front of her, a movement she recognizes as surrender. He's trying to make her comfortable. She can appreciate the gesture. So she nods, and so does he.

 

"What's your name?"

 

She thinks for a moment. She doesn't really have a name, or at least she wasn't given one. Not by any parents she knew. Unless her name was "Ugly Fucking Duckling". That would make sense. 

 

"Emily."

 

He doesn't bother to question her about a last name, and she's grateful, because she really was about to blurt "Duckling". "How old are you?"

 

Now she fidgets, because she actually has no idea. She could be, if she thought about it, between 24 and 32, so she picks a number between that.

 

"28."

 

Again, he doesn't question it, but he does stare at her, as if trying to make her break. 

 

She doesn't. Thank God.

 

"Hershel says you might have something..." And he doesn't want to say  _wrong with you,_ because obviously that's a little forward and even a little rude, but he doesn't have to say anything more, because she understands.

 

"I'm not injured. Inside. Just the cuts on my back."

 

"And how'd that happen?"

 

Rick watches her move her jaw to the side with a sickening pop. Her piercing gaze becomes a little haunted.

 

"Someone did it to me. They're dead now."

 

* * *

 

 

After a few more questions, mostly about the dead walking, Rick leads Emily to a shower with some clothes to clean up. He watches her step inside for a moment, notices her confused look in the mirror, and as she turns toward him, he doesn't expect the next words out of her mouth. 

 

"Sir, I dunno how to use this."

 

* * *

 

Emily has realized, after a little help from Rick, that she absolutely  _loves_ showers.

 

The water is hot, boiling even, and she doesn't care, because she's never felt anything so heavenly in her entire life. She washes her hair, scrubs the dirt, blood, and grime from her scarred body, and shudders pleasantly. 

 

She doesn't stay there long, in fact, she was asked not to, because she still has a few questions to answer. But she does allow herself to open the cuts on her back to wash them out. She hunches forward, the splits opening, and she feels  _them_ poke out just a little, but doesn't let them through, knowing that they'd never fit in the small space of the shower. But she let's the warm water soak what it can reach, and it feels blissful. 

Sooner or later, though, she turns the water off like Rick showed her (which she is still embarrassed about), and steps out of the shower. As she's grabbing the towel, she looks up, and freezes. 

There's a mirror in front of her, and she's seen many in her life, but this one seems out of place. Or the woman in it does, with her wet, curly hair, sticking to her defined jaw and full lips, tickling her neck and collarbone. It looks like it's never been cut before, the brown locks seemingly a little uneven and all over the place. She brings the towel up to her head and wrings out her hair, turns away, and forgets the images in her mind. 

 

* * *

 

 

As a precautionairy measure, Emily cuts thin slits into the back of the thin flannel shirt they've given her, identical to the ones on her back. She pulls a jacket over it to hide the marks. 

 

Someone knocks on the bathroom door and she opens it a little, peering into the gentle eyes of a grey haired woman. She's smiling gently. 

 

"Hey there, Emily. I'm Carol. Rick wanted to see you in the living room." She holds out a pair of boots. "You wear about the same size as me. I had an extra pair."

 

Emily feels the corner of her mouth twitch and she takes the boots from her slowly. "Thank you."

 

Carol nods and pauses for a moment, as if she wants to say more, but keeps walking. She watches her until she's out of sight, then closes the door and sits on the toilet to put the boots on, which are actually her size. When she steps out, she walks the same way Carol went, following voices that lead to what she thinks is a living room. 

 

"This isn't like Randall, Shane." Emily stops, listens to Rick argue.

 

"You don't know that," Shane argues back. She hears him push off of something hard and step closer to Rick. "She could be _dangerous,_ brother. Who _knows_ why she was bleeding to death by the pond? Maybe she deserved those gashes in her back?"

 

"She deserves a _chance-"_ Rick starts to say.

 

"So does Randall-"

 

"This isn't about Randall!" Rick suddenly shouts, quieting the entire room. Emily, realizing that this isn't her argument just yet, steps backwards.

 

The floor creaks.

 

Rick rounds the corner to see who it is, and his shoulders slump a little to see that it's her. He motions for her to join them, and she's hesitant, but she follows. 

 

"This," Rick says, putting a hand gently on her back, ushering her into the room of people, "is Emily."

 

Suddenly she feels more than unwelcome with the eleven pairs of eyes staring her down, but she holds her ground. Shane is shaking his head and leaning himself back against the fireplace, giving her a death glare like no other. She glares back.

 

"I understand," Emily starts sharply, still looking at Shane, before letting her eyes scan the room, "that you can't trust me yet. I didn't really ask to be here. I'm sorry." She takes in a deep breath. "I also understand that you have questions... And if you'd like to ask them now, while I'm here, because it certainly seems like you think I'm staying, go ahead."

 

"Do you have a group?" A blonde woman next to Shane pipes up. 

 

"No, I don't. I've always been on my own." Which is true, for as long as she's been free, anyway. There's never been anyone she could trust. These people are no exception.

 

"You've never had a group? Ever? Just wanderin' on your own out there?" 

 

Emily starts to chew at her cheek, nodding. It seems unlikely in this world that you could survive on your own, but she doesn't have much trouble avoiding the dead. Or walkers. Whatever these people seem fit on calling them. In fact, she's only ever had to kill a dozen or so. 

 

"Do you _want_ to stay here?" Hershel asks. 

 

Her mouth twitches again. She doesn't know how to respond. She doesn't even know these people, but in the short time she's been here, they've shown her hospitality. They gave her a shower. They gave her clothes. They're not trying to kill her. Sure, maybe they held her down because she flailed like a wild animal, but she considers that a precautionairy measure, because she literally snarled at the old man. 

 

So she shrugs and says, "Kinda. Y'all ain't tried to kill me yet, so... Sounds like a sweet deal." And then she turns and looks at Rick. "If that's okay."

 

Rick regards her for a moment before looking out across the room. "We'll vote on it. But not now." He claps her on the shoulder. "You gotta earn your keep first."

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I read a fanfic a while back that i lost that's about werewolves and an alternate universe in The Walking Dead, and i thought I'd fuck around with some mythical human science projects from a book I read in highschool.


End file.
